


A Slow Collision Of Fate

by ArwenLune



Category: Robin Hood (2010)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, F/M, Feelings, inner life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-11-25 15:56:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/640541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/ArwenLune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He would have her respect, above all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The sword for your time, Longstride

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally watched Robin Hood and it gave me all kinds of feels. I'll be adding snippets exploring the inner lives of these two

"The sword for your time, Longstride. Are you in agreement?"

Robin looks at her, at this noble lady who had made it clear she has no desire for this arrangement. He would have expected somebody in fine dresses doing embroidery, not somebody washing her grubby feet in the footbath at the entrance. Not somebody who, for lack of a nearby maid, had helped him out of his chainmail with her own hands. 

Is she set against him because she mourns her husband? Does she doubt his character and think him manipulative? Perhaps both?

Sir Walter knows he is offering him a boon – the old man must know there is no refusing such a proposal, even if Lady Marion does hate him. 

He looks up at her, at the way she is awaiting his answer, and he has sympathy for the way her life is being changed without her input, for the way her fate has ended up in his hands. He will be considerate of it, of her, as much as he can. But he is not so good a man that he would turn down this offer simply for her opinion of him. He must hope she will warm up to him.

"Yes."


	2. The sword for your time, Longstride

He is not well come in her sleeping chamber, and he knows it. His arrival has brought bad news and upheaval. This situation where he is to pretend to be her husband is not of her choosing but rather forced upon her. She is angry, and he does not wish to intrude upon her personal space by venturing into her chambers uninvited.

So he stands by the fire, and waits.

She is a fine lady, the kind worthy of her station, graceful and resourceful and sharp. Age, worry and hard work have taken the blush of youthful beauty from her face, but she is still very pleasing to his eyes. A fine lady indeed.

Though he is no nobleman, he would have her respect. He would have her look upon him as a man worth speaking with, worthy of her time and attention. Not as an unwashed yeoman forced upon her presence only to maintain a farce. Not as the poor substitute for a husband she barely knew and yet grieves.

Robin does not like to think of himself as a prideful man, but he will not come to her chambers like a beggar. He has never forced his presence upon a woman, and he will not start now. He will not insist to hold up this pretence if she is not amenable to it.

So he stands by the fire, and waits.

She had stripped him of his armour, reluctant at first and then, propriety be damned for the task that was before her, with the sure motions guiding her hands in all her tasks. The firelight had painted a blush upon her cheeks, and he had _wanted_ , then – had had to force his hands to stay by his side instead of reaching out to trail along her long hair. Had to force down his gaze instead of meeting hers openly.

It had been merely a reaction to her proximity after long years at war, at the way she had put her deft hands on him to help him out of his armour. Sir Walter's proposal changed everything. He wants something different now. He wants something _more_.

He opens his eyes as she enters the main room and approaches the fire. As he watches her, hair glowing in the firelight, he tries to dismiss the memory of her backward glance, eyes taking in his form before she had left him to bathe. She is a lady, and he will not dishonour her even in his thoughts.

He would have her respect, above all. That he likes the fire in her eyes when she scoffs indignantly is merely a side consideration.

"Ask me nicely."


	3. Bogged down

He can see how she has managed to keep the Loxley house and the town going despite their many lean years. She is stubborn to a fault, and he finds it is at once endearing and infuriating. She insists of going into the bog herself, then promptly gets stuck. 

He takes it as a prime opportunity to play her husband, including the cheerful insult of rescuing the ram first. 

The Sheriff arrives just as he pulls her out of the mud, and if Marion was vexed with him just moments before, she's suddenly quite happy to touch him and emphasise their marriage. It doesn't take longer than a second to work out why.

It is pleasant to feel wanted by her, a vast improvement over her earlier put-upon attitude even if it was brought on by that vile creature of a Sheriff. He doesn't have to act his anger with the man. 

As they ride back, knee to knee, he thinks he can work with this situation – can work with her needing him to fill the space her husband left, and he needing her and Sir Walter to give him this role. It doesn't feel like charity this way; he is providing something in return.


	4. Men of the Hood

After he has come back from the nightly planting – he has to give Friar Tuck credit for the inspired idea of claiming it a miracle – he settles in front of the fire in the main hall. Tired and filthy, he doesn't want to wake the dogs by returning to her chambers, lest it alarm her.

It's not the threat of her dagger that makes him decide so, though he certainly does not dismiss it, but the dark smudges under her eyes. If his actions of this night are to reduce her worries, they should not reduce her sleep, either.

 With this, he hopes, he has given her something in return for the arrangement in which she is an unwilling participant. A contribution that will make an undeniable difference long after he will be gone. It is with that hope that he falls asleep in front of the fire, its heat already beginning to dry his rain-damp clothes. 

He wakes to her intent gaze.

"I thought you had.. left," she says, and he cannot decipher the look she gives him, but the gentle hesitation in her tone suggests that she is pleased he has not.

"The fields are planted. I didn't want to wake you." He can feel the low rumble of his sleep-ridden voice in his chest.

"How did you get the seed?"

What will she think of him if he tells her? It is suddenly important to him.

"If you have to ask how, then it's not a gift."

He wonders if she realises that it might be better not to know.

"Thank you."

He likes that she is not so proud she cannot show gratitude. It is in her voice, and he sees it in her face as she leans close, like a wife might. He makes himself keep breathing, a slow in and out, though his breath wants to stutter in his chest at her nearness. The gentle brush of her breath over the skin of his throat, and the scent of her hair as it falls forward and brushes his shoulder, play havoc with his composure.

He blames his half-asleep state for the impression that she might hesitate, after she has drawn the blanket up over him. What he wishes she would do and what she actually does blur together in the comfortable haziness of his sleep-drowsy mind. After she has returned to her sleeping chamber he touches the back of his fingers to his lips, confused for a moment about if she kissed him or if he merely had wished her to, and he falls into warm, soft-edged dreams.


	5. She teases him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the idea that Robin and Marion are caught up in a very understated teasing match, but I kind of struggled to give it shape, because they were SO SRS in the movie. Here's an attempt to fill it out..

She teases him. I takes him some time to catch on, because she is his guide in this new and unfamiliar role and he would not wish to dismiss her guidance. While he expects – and gets – sarcasm in response to his needling, she has given him little cause to believe she would jest with him. 

Until she tells him in all seriousness that her husband used to be the champion of the pig wrestling at the harvest festival, and that the villagers look forward to challenging him now he has returned.

He has seen such contests at village fairs. There is a lot of mud involved.

Her face and voice are perfectly serious, and for a moment he takes this as another piece – if a baffling one – of information on the man he must play. Then he catches her sideway glance as they urge their horses into a trot. She is checking to see how he is taking this news.

"I look forward to it," he nods gravely. "Perhaps we should enter as a team."

Lightness does not come easily to him; his life hasn't provided much cause for smiling or laughter. He suspects it is the same for the Lady Marion, and so he treasures the look she throws over her shoulder as she sets her horse to canter, eyes full of laughter and lips quirked up. It makes her look much younger than her years, carefree as a girl.

He finds himself grinning as he gives his horse rein to chase her, admiring her steady seat and the deft handling of her spirited bay, She leads him across a fence and two hedgerows, easily soaring over them, before he catches up with her in the middle of a stream.

They pause to let the horses drink, and his grey stamps its forehoof into the water with enthusiasm, spattering them both. It draws a chuckle out of Marion as she guides her horse out of range.

He clicks his tongue and then, when the horse ignores him, boots it in the ribs. It's still hard to believe he is riding King Richard's warhorse – it's still hard to believe nobody has recognised or claimed it. He'd dumped the more extravagant and identifiable parts of its tack along the way, but still, it is the King's horse.

Then again, it's possible nobody has fewer illusions about King Lionheart than Robin Longstride. He covered his men's hands and hearts in blood, asked for their true opinion on such, and would have had them flogged for giving it. The only reason to regret his passing is that King John seems even more capricious and given to avarice.

Robin has never had much time for nobility, for kings and lords, for those who would rule over others as if they are due unquestioning loyalty and owe nothing in return.

Lady Marion Loxley of Nottingham is not one such. He can read it in the faces of the people, in the way she asks after an ailing baby, an elderly father. These are not only her people, she is their lady.

He draws breath to ask her a question he hasn't even completely formed in his thoughts – is she glad he is here? – but does not speak, because he is not sure he would wish to know if she was not. He wishes he knew if his attempts to fill the space of her husband, to endear himself to her people, cause her grief. But he knows not how to ask the question, so he swallows the words.

She has noticed, judging by her glance, but she is merciful and does not press him.

"Come... husband," she adds it slowly and thoughtfully, but the word no longer sounds as sharp as it did the first few times, "I will show you how the watermill has been repaired in your absence."

"I would like that," he says softly as they guide their horses out of the water. It is the truth. To spend more time riding with her like this, knee to knee, he would possibly let her lead him through the gates of hell itself.

 


	6. The Runaways of Sherwood Forest

He does not know what to think when he sees Marion walk purposefully into the forest, save that perhaps this is another moment where she thinks herself the only one who can do a task that is really more suited to another. He follows her, intrigued.

 

He comes to with his head pounding, trussed up uncomfortably and carried by four boys. He's heard mention of the runaways in the forest, but he did not think to find them – or rather, to be found by them – in such a way. Do they have Marion? He grits his teeth against the pounding of his head, not wishing to hurt or kill children, but if they harm Marion...

"Has he spoken yet?"

This boy is clearly the leader, hardened looking and with the bearing of one who is accustomed to being heard. 

"He was spying on us."

"Spying?" Robin whips his head around, and there is Marion – unharmed, thank God. "Robert..." she chides teasingly, "I'm ashamed of you."

Her smile and the tone of her voice clearly indicate that she is in no danger from these boys, and he relaxes inwardly, reassessing the situation. Showing that he does not feel threatened might go either way. 

"Hello Marion, I've come to save you."

There are some giggles from the group. Marion smiles and introduces him, sounding deeply amused by the situation. As well she should be – he's been made a right spectacle.

"Untie him."

"No," Marion says thoughtfully, "I don't think _spies_ should be let off so easily."

He almost laughs, because even when he is the subject of her mirth, he enjoys this side of her, the playfulness in her voice. 

"That was unkind," he says, repressing his grin, and she tilts her head to the side, giving him a fond smile. He gets the impression she is pleased he is here, though he doesn't quite know why.

 

He finds the lever, the boys' will to have their lives mean something, and uses it mercilessly to gain control of the situation. He is not sure what he expected of Marion – perhaps to rush to their defence? But she remains seated, a smaller, sickly looking boy close to her, and when he catches a glance of her as he offers the leader his hand, she looks pleased.

 

He'll leave the boys to stew for a while, and makes his exit while he has the upper hand. He almost stalks off alone before he remembers and looks over his shoulder.

"Wife?"

She walks silently next to him, careful steps quiet in the forest. He isn't sure what to think of what just happened – he somehow feels he unknowingly followed a script she'd written for him. He's not one to appreciate such things. 

When they reach the forest edge, he glances at her. She gives a questioning look back.

"Did you know this would happen, Marion?"

Because if she did, she is far more manipulative than he'd thought.

"No," she says contemplatively, "but I cannot deny that I had hoped you would meet the boys at some point, and that you might be the one to reach them."

He is still thinking about that when he is stretched out in front of the fire. He already knows Marion throws herself into things whole-heartedly and without regard for herself – he just hadn't known she does the same thing with other people. It's something to keep in mind, that she can be as rash with his life as she can be with her own. Does it show faith in him that she did so, or carelessness?

He can't decide if he finds this trait endearing or alarming. He admires her courage and her ruthlessness, but he is intensely aware he is vulnerable in this situation.


	7. Life has Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After 6 weeks on anchor in Barbados, I'm finally in St Lucia. And pretty damn homesick at the moment. Fandom seems to help keep me sane, so expect more of this. And thanks very much for the comments, it's kind of a link to home to share fannish stuff with people...

"Life has returned. You have returned it," Sir Walter says, and while Robin does not disagree, he cannot escape the thought that they are celebrating the return of Sir Robert Loxley, and that he is merely filling that space. Half the time when Marion looks at him, he still feels like she is wishing for her husband.

 

When Alan sets in a ballad, he is surprised to see her approach. He dares not hope it is because she wishes for a dance with him – the Sheriff is there also, and he knows Marion wants to emphasise their marriage bond to protect herself from his attention.

 

He can't blame her. The Sheriff is the kind to abuse his power in any depraved way he can.

 

Marion is grave in the dance, no irony in her curtsey, no challenging spark in her eyes. Her hand trembles in his a little, and he wonders in what memory she is caught up, that she does not meet his eyes. He suddenly envies Sir Robert Loxley, the man he saw pass, whose eyes he closed. A man who was so clearly loved by his father and his wife, even if he did not know it.

 

The dance brings their faces close together, and for a moment they share one breath. He takes in the scent of her, the mead she drank earlier, the herbs she uses for her hair. He has to force himself to close his eyes for a moment. He tries to create some distance in his mind, because in that moment he loses sight of what he is here to do, of who he is, and of anything that should keep him from closing the distance and press his lips to hers.

 

He does not let go of her hand when the next dance begins, a more active dance full of turns and lifts, and the lightening of the mood is a relief. When she looks as if she will make her excuses, he only tugs her closer, as a husband might. Some of the villagers laugh.

 

If she had seemed distant only moments before, this dance she is there with him. They turn around each other, arms about the other's waist, and the slow, lingering way she meets his eyes, the feel of her waist between his hands as he lifts her, nearly takes his breath away.

 

He wonders if she knows, what this does to him – if she knows that the lines between playing her husband and being her husband are beginning to blur for him.

 

At the end of this dance the man claims a kiss from his lady. She gives it willingly, rising onto tiptoes to press a slow, chaste kiss against his lips. His breath stutters, and he hopes she does not notice. A couple of the villagers cheer – Robin hears the voices of his men – and he falls back a step, wrenching himself away from her, trying to keep a hold of who he is.

 

He is not so proud he can't admit that he is afraid sometimes in battle – feeling like one's life is genuinely in danger sharpens the reflexes – but it is the first time he can remember he has been afraid of a woman, of what she can do to him with no more than a glance, a touch.


	8. He would say his farewell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello from St Vincent :-) I found a copy of the movie on somebody's laptop so I've finally been able to rewatch without having to explain my fangirlishness. So there are now some new chapters slotted in between, and some new stuff added on too.

He would say his farewell to her before he rides, but the maid does not know where she is, and he is running out of time. He cannot stand the thought of riding away into danger without her knowing he means to return to her, but that is it, is it not? She has already said farewell to a man – a husband - once and spent ten years awaiting his return. Perhaps, even though he is only playing the part, she cannot abide the thought of a re-enactment of that scene. 

Or perhaps she simply does not care. He hates that the mere thought, even though he knows it unlikely, has such power over his mood. He tells himself again that while part of his value is – must be – that his presence makes life easier for her, she is not indifferent to him. 

As he sweeps his gaze over Peper Harrow before turning his horse away, he finds himself making a promise in the privacy of his thoughts. It is a promise he will never speak aloud, because no matter how skilled an archer, he cannot control fate: I will return to you, Marion. I will always return, as long as you'll wish me to.

It is not real, this marriage, but as he rides away without the last look or touch he'd wished for, he realises for the first time how very much he wishes it was.


	9. After the Battle of Nottingham

He is so caught up in the aftermath of the battle over Nottingham, that the first time he finds her in the crowd is just as the cart from Peper Harrow stops. He has a nasty sense of foreboding, because of course Godfrey would have sent somebody to the house, but surely a blind old man... but then they had locked the villagers, women, children, all, into the barn and set it aflame. There is no 'surely they would not' in this scenario.

He is already walking toward her, drawn to her despite the other matters that still need his attention, when she turns around with the sword and he sees her face. Marion is a woman of great passion, and he knows she loved Sir Walter like a father – the pain of his loss is writ clear on her face.

She offers him the sword, and the symbolism of it is not lost on him, but he concentrates on her instead. He lets it press harmlessly between them as she curls toward him, and gently cradles her close. She takes a shuddering breath and cries quietly against his shoulder, and he presses his face into her hair and swallows back his own grief. He only knew Sir Walter a short time, but the old man made a very deep impression.

They have two days until they meet the French, which means they must leave the very next morning. He accompanies Marion to Peper Harrow while the barons begin to organise what to do with the French soldiers, and his men see to the villagers. They are both needed there, but the grief over Sir Walter leaves her quiet and accepting when he puts an arm about her and guides her up the path to the house.

The French have already cleared out, and apart from Sir Walter nobody was harmed, only frightened – though the servants are all deeply grieved also. It is perhaps a small mercy that nothing up here needs repair, and that the maids are free to arrange a bath when he asks for one.

It was his intention to let her bathe first, but she resolutely says that he needs it more, and begins to help him out of his armour. It is not as awkward as the first time, perhaps because their shared grief is overpowering whatever charge might overlay these actions.

She has pushed up her sleeve to feel the temperature of the water, and he notices the circle of bruises around her wrist. He already knows she was not safely out of harms' way, but it does something to him, seeing evidence of brutality on her skin, and he has reached out for her hand before he truly realises it.

Her breath hitches at his touch, but he moves slowly, giving her time to pull away, and she does not.

"Who did this?"

He makes an effort to gentle his voice, to not let his anger at whoever did this to her bleed though.

"Godfrey's man," she finally says, not meeting his eyes. "He got me alone. He's dead now."

That explanation leaves some significant gaps, and he is not sure if he has a right to ask, but the surge of protectiveness is powerful.

"Are you – did he – what... are you well?"

She smiles, perhaps at his stumbling, and with her eyes on their joined hands, says, "He did not harm me beyond the bruises, Robin. I stabbed him in the neck before he could."

He feels an overwhelming pride at how strong she is, how fearless. Instead of speaking words that would no doubt come out incoherent, he raises her hand to his lips and brushes a kiss to her knuckles.

She draws in a breath at the touch, her eyes flickering over his form, and he abruptly realises he is standing before her unclothed from the waist up. It would be pushing the boundaries of propriety even if they did not need to arrange for Sir Walter's burial.

He lets go of her hand, and she withdraws it slowly, stripped of her iron composure by the events of the day. He imagines for a moment that she is as reluctant to leave as he is to let her go.

He makes quick work of his bath once she is gone, not wanting to leave her alone for too long. He can admit to himself that it's as much for his peace of mind as it is for hers – he has a strong need to make sure she is safe, and doesn't like the idea of being away from her.

 

When he has dressed in her husband's clothes and approaches the fire in the other room, she gives him a look he can't decipher and disappears to bathe.

Robin sits in the seat – his seat – by the fire and tries to stop replaying the events of the day in his mind yet another time.

He should have been quicker to realise what Godfrey might do – he should have arrived sooner – he should have ridden straight up to the house to protect Marion and Sir Walter. Except Marion had been in the village and he still had not managed to protect her. She'd saved herself, ably as far as he can tell, but he cannot help feeling she should not have had to. As her husband, he should have been there to defend her.

  

When she returns to the room in her robes, he is jolted out of his dark thoughts by the scent of herbs that wafts in with her. She looks tired and flushed with the heat of the bath, drained of energy. He sees the bruises on her wrists and collarbone and looks searchingly into her face, wondering if Godfrey's man left more bruises upon her skin, until she raises an eyebrow. 

He flushes slightly and looks dumbly at the comb she is offering him, confused if this is her blunt way of telling his hair is in disarray.

"I sent Winifred away to help with Sir Walter," she says finally, hesitantly, and – ah.

For a moment he wonders if she should insist she words her request, like before, but he is touched by the way she comes to him with her defences down. He will not ruin this quiet closeness, this shared grief, by refusing her.

"Do you want to-" he clears his throat and begins to get to his feet, but she stops him with a gesture. "Will you sit?" 

She pulls close the footstool and settles down with her back to him, the long wet strands of her hair hanging down her back. It's close enough that she is leaning back against his knees, and he looks down onto the crown of her head, the intimacy of the moment stealing his breath.

He grips the comb, and traces a hand over her hair, a little uncertain where to begin. A ladies' maid he is not. Finally he takes one of the long strands and begins at the bottom, pulling the comb through over and over until he has teased out the knots. When he reaches her scalp he puts the strand over her shoulder to separate it.

It takes a long time, and the heat of the fire lulls them both. Marion leans against his legs more heavily, though he knows she is not asleep, and one of her dogs has come up, enjoying the petting she is bestowing upon it.

At one point he thinks she is crying quietly, her breath coming with the occasional sniffle, but he does not say anything, only continues his quiet combing. Maggie or Winifred surely would have done this task in a quarter of the time, but he finds he enjoys the process, the gentle, repetitive motion, the calm trust of the moment.

Her hair is long dry when he finishes, and he has never touched silk, but he imagines the long tresses to be as least that soft when they slip through his fingers, perhaps softer. Not quite ready to break the moment just yet, he divides it into three parts and makes a loose plait.

He'd learned how from a sweet, dark-skinned woman in a pleasure house in Constantinople, or perhaps Tripoli, he is not sure. Would Marion be displeased to know this? He wonders at that; she is no blushing maiden, and likely holds little illusion about a crusaders' life.

He ties off the plait with a small stroke of leather, and leans over to press a kiss to the crown of her head before he can remember that he is only playing her husband.

She makes a small, drowsy sound and tilts back her head. Her eyes are closed, and there are drying tear tracks upon her cheeks that rend at his heart.

"Let's go—let's get you to bed," he amends belatedly, but she shakes off her haze anyway, drawing herself away and to her feet as if suddenly remembering who he is.

He tries to swallow his disappointment as he follows her and the dogs up the stairs to her sleeping chamber, because he may enjoy what closeness she gives him, but he has no right to expect, or to claim – he is not Sir Walter's son, nor her husband. He will accept only what is freely given. These moments that take his breath away must be where she forgets who he really is. A soldier who has conned, or at kindest, lucked, his way into the place of a nobleman.

It is not a cheering thought, and he feels crowded in by circumstances – he will not stay where he is merely tolerated in another man's stead, but she will need his help, in the times to come, and he is not ready to abandon her, if only for Sir Walter's sake.

He is jolted out of his morose thoughts when she stops him from going to his bed by the fire. Her hand is on his forearm, and he has reflexively wheeled around before he can stop himself. She gasps slightly, and lowers her eyes.

"You must be weary," she says softly, hesitantly. "I thought..." She turns her gaze to her bed, and he stills in surprise.

When she says nothing further, he says softly, "Are you offering me..." He clears his throat. "...space to sleep in your bed?"

He needs these words to be said out loud, to know for sure that he is following her wishes.

"I... you—yes," she says finally, not meeting his eyes. "If you wish it. To sleep."

And oh, any other moment he would needle her about this sudden shyness, this awkward offer, but right now he is touched and honoured by her trust, and merely says softly, "I would like that."

The bed is large enough to both sleep without touching, but she does not keep to the far side as he had expected, letting her arm stay in contact with his shoulder as she falls asleep almost immediately.

It takes him longer, caught between the pleasure of her trust in him and the fear that she is merely looking to him for comfort and protection. Once upon a time – in fact only a week or two ago – he would have been pleased to be wanted for whatever reason, but he is acutely aware that is true no longer. It only takes a glance at the bruises at her neck and wrists, at the sweet curve of her lips, to feel a fierce surge of protectiveness and pride and unnamed feelings he isn't quite ready to face. He wants to be wanted for the right reasons.

She turns over to face him, a pillow pulled up against her stomach, and he watches her sleeping face, wishing he wasn't so hopelessly caught up in her. Wishing there were more choices than to stay and feel like a beggar at her door, grateful for whatever affection she bestows upon him, or to leave and know his absence might well what takes Nottingham from her, what  brings her down.

He finally falls asleep with her slow breath brushing his shoulder, the back of his hand carefully tucked against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think? *puppy eyes*


	10. At least he has said it. At least she knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back in St Lucia. Still wishing this fandom had actual readers :-)

He wakes with a start to find one of the dogs licking his face, and discovers with some surprise that Marion is already up and dressed. He normally sleeps lighter than that, certainly after combat.

"Yes, yes, I'm getting up," he grumbles at the dog, which backs off and makes a play-bow, then offers him a shoe. One of Marion's delicate looking but grimy slippers, in fact, the kind that sum her up perfectly. Elegant and well-made, worn around the stable yard with no regard for the fine make and material.

"We're not playing with that," he tells the dog, and tucks it away in the shoe chest.

Marion and the servants have been busy with preparing Sir Walter's burial – which isn't to be a burial at all, but a pyre. He would be more surprised at that unusual choice if he had not overheard their mutual contempt for the church.

He rises and dresses quickly, aware that as Sir Walter's pretend son, he ought to take an active role in the proceedings, even if he will be looking to Marion to make sure he does not counteract her wishes.

The ceremony itself is brief, and he has to swallow hard when it comes to the moment the fire is lit. He doesn't quite know what it is like to love a father – he know he must have as a child, but he does not remember – but he imagines that the pain he feels at the loss of this clear-sighted blind old man must come close.

Marion stands tall and proud beside him, tears in her eyes but facing what must be faced. He does not take her hand, not sure if it would be welcomed, but he stands close enough to her that her shoulder touches his, that she could lean against him if she wished. It is as much for his comfort as for hers, and he wishes he did not have to go. The troops are already geared up to march; it is only him they are waiting for.

 

She is there to wish him farewell, this time, and he wants nothing so much as to stay with her, but duty calls. She looks so beautiful and so grave, and he knows she is thinking about losing both Sir Walter and him in the space of days. He swallows a dozen promises, words he cannot say because he will not lie to her, not even to comfort her. Instead he says,

"Ask me nicely."

He was expecting indignation, or a teasing reply: not a kiss. He feels as if his heart will beat out of his chest when her hand settles on his shoulder and she closes the distance between them. His hands ache to draw her closer against him, but he dares not push. Her lips are very soft, and their breath mingles. He closes his eyes, almost shivering with the thought that he is breathing her in.

When they separate he lets out a deep breath, wondering for the briefest of moments if she kissed him because she wanted to or because she needs him if she is to maintain her position. Wonders if he can trust this. But her hand is still on his shoulder, fingering his cloak, and then she smiles, so sweetly that he forgets to breathe for a moment, and leans back in for another brief kiss.

It is the first time that he allows himself to think that she might care for him the same way he cares about her.

He makes no promise to return, because he does not control God's will, but after she has been so brave he can, finally, give her the words that have been on his lips for days. He'd held back because he had worried she would see this merely as an attempt to play her, to solidify his comfortable position as her fake husband. He'd worried the words would be unwelcome.

Now that she has so bravely shown that he is more to her than that, he can finally say it, and it is a relief. The words come out low and fervent, rushing from his lips, and he wheels his horse without giving her time to speak, but at least he has said it. At least she knows.

"I love you, Marion"

 

 


	11. "For the love of God, Marion!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back in St. Lucia! Next stop is Bermuda (then Azores, then the UK) so updates will be sparser. Not sure how much writing I will get done given how bumpy the sail up there will be...

"For the love of God, Marion!"

The surprising thing is that he's not surprised to see her at all. Dismayed, certainly, and wishing that she was safely far away – but not surprised. Because he knows as well as she does that if this day is lost, there will be no safe places for her. 

For half a second all he wants is to send her far away, but then he sees the fire in her eyes and the set of her jaw, and knows that even if he wins the day and lives to return to her, if he sends her away now – if he even could – he will have lost her. She has not come here lightly, and if he uses his position to deny her the choice, anything that could ever be between them will be gone. 

No, she will fight today and he will not try to prevent her. If she is inexperienced in combat, she is not the least qualified person he has seen go into battle either. 

"Loxley." And oh, he wants to look heavenward in exasperation, he wants to wind his hand into her hair and hold her close, he wants to kiss her until both their heads spin, because there is such relief in her eyes. He imagines that it is relief that he is not the kind of man to bully her off the battlefield. The kind of man who would send her to await her fate in mute powerlessness. 

He knows that she has as much right to have a hand in her own fate as he does, and even if he had rather she wasn't here, he cannot deny her the ability to make her own choice. He respects her. 

He bites back a hundred words, because he must the commander here, not the man who loves her with everything he has and everything he will ever be. 

"Circle your troops and join the charge."


	12. He has followed her progress in the charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bermuda! Got hammered by a gale on the way up. It is SO COLD here

He has followed her progress in the charge with half an eye, always aware of where she is, what she is facing. She does herself credit, and he is relieved to see her deftly evade situations that would be too much for her to handle. 

The boys from the forest stay close to her, and Robin grimaces when he sees one of the lightly armoured youngsters hewn from his pony. He wishes the lads were not here – but they, too, have the right to choose their own fate.

He focuses on the shoreboat that is attempting to land close by, pushes his horse into the surf so he can cut down the men struggling to get to dry land. The next moment he looks around, he sees Marion get pulled from her horse by Godfrey. 

He doesn't, later, remember what he did to free himself from the fight he was in and get to her. He does not know how he managed to ignore her still form in the surf while he fought Godfrey. He only remembers picking up the bow, shooting the arrow, and the roar in his ears abating to let him hear the victory cries of the men around him. 

He remembers seeing a wave wash over Marion, her unmoving body in its heavy chainmail. How limp and still she was when he lifted her, pale and cold, and he remembers kissing her, thinking it was the last kiss, that he had lost her, that she was dead.


	13. It is a long ride home

It is a long ride home, and he worries about Marion perhaps more than he should – certainly more than she wishes him to. After the first hours, which he forced her to ride in a cart, she insisted on getting back onto her horse. He can tell by the way she holds herself that she is exhausted and sore, unused to the strains of battle and the weight of the chainmail.

When they are finally, finally back at Peper Harrow, he dismounts quickly, so that he is already next to her horse when she swings over her leg. As he had expected, the weight of the mail and her exhaustion play havoc with her balance, and she stumbles and nearly falls. 

"I have you," he says softly, putting a hand in her side and one under her arm to support her. To his surprise she leans in, pressing her face against the side of his neck, and just stays like that for a few moments while servants lead their horses away. He can tell by the weight she allows him to support that she has trouble staying on her feet.

"Come," he says, moving reluctantly out of her embrace so that he can guide her along, into the entrance hall. 

Maggie and Winifred fuss endearingly when they see Marion, and he has some sympathy for their dismay at having seen their lady ride out to war. Marion is silent and subdued, and Maggie looks alarmed at this state of affairs. 

"A bath, Maggie," he says gently to the girl. 

"Yes sir, right away," she says, casting another worried glance at Marion before shoeing the other girl out with her to make the arrangements. 

He sits her down on her seat in front of the fire, and slowly, his chainmail creaking, he kneels in front of her. She looks down on him with a look he can't decipher, something blank and hard. He remembers in time what effect the events of the past week may have had on her, and pauses before he touches her. 

"Is it all right if I take off your boots?" he says, and he doesn't think he's ever heard his own voice sound like this.

It takes a long moment for her gaze to focus on him, and he isn't sure he wants to know who she imagined he was, just now. 

"Yes," she finally says softly, and he unlaces the damp boots and pulls them off.

She lets him peel her out of the chainmail, cooperating as well as she can until she is in trousers and undershirt. Robin had intended to ask one of the maids to help him while she bathed, but she gets to her feet and helps him herself, though she flinches when he drops his swordbelt.

When the maids come to say that the bath is ready, he helps her up and gives her a gentle push, but she doesn't let go of his arm, and it takes only her imploring look to convince him. 

He has bathed with a woman before, but it has never been like this; calm, almost reverent. He has not let himself think about her unclothed body, about doing more than sleeping next to her, but even if he had he would not find this situation stimulating. Subdued, hurting Marion only awakens powerful protective instincts in him. 

She sits quietly in the tub and he washes her back, gentle sweeps of the sponge to avoid agitating the bruising and the contusions got in battle. He washes the dried blood from her long hair, and tries not to think about the rust colour in the water.

When he finally helps her out of the tub, he holds out a large drying cloth in his wide-spread arms, and she willingly steps into his embrace. He wraps the cloth and his arms around her and cradles her close, not caring that her wet hair is soaking him.

She lays her head on his shoulder, and he breathes deeply despite his bruised ribs, feeling like a bell struck, like he is soaring, like a circle that finally closed.

"I love you, Marion," he whispers against her head, because it is such a relief to know the words are not unwelcome.

"You need a bath," she says against his skin, and the laughter bursts out of him, charmed and vexed at once by the memory of that first encounter and the way she never, ever loses her edges. 

"I do indeed," he agrees, still smiling. "But I seem to have my hands full."

"Oh," she mumbles, and slowly lets go of him to dry herself. He holds out her long robe for her and a cloth to wrap around her hair. 

When she is finished they stand opposite each other awkwardly for a moment, uncertain about what happens now. Robin finally shrugs, figuring that she will leave if she thinks this inappropriate. 

He takes off his boots, and the rustle he hears behind him is Marion settling herself on a stool against the wall. After a moment of hesitation he takes off his breeches, pausing to examine the heavy bruising on his thigh where his chainmail stopped a sword from cutting off his leg. 

Real, warm baths you can immerse yourself in are a luxury he's never had before, outside the odd time in a pleasure house. He would ordinarily take his time, but Marion is waiting, watching. At any other time he would analyse the way her eyes rest on him, but there will be, he dares to think, time and occasion to explore that. Right now all he really sees is how tired she is and how hurt, and that she needs to be in bed instead of uncomfortably waiting for him. 

He is out and dressed in bedclothes in minutes, and extends a hand to her. 

"Wife?"

She snorts an unladylike laugh, and he loves her, loves her, loves her so much, and then she takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet and straight into his arms. 

"Husband," she says against his neck, warm and close. "Let us go to bed."

His breath catches a little at that, because he had hoped, but not wanted to assume she would wish for him to share her bed again.

"Yes," he only says, and they climb the steps together.


	14. It is not the deep, dreamless sleep they both need and wish for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm home! After nearly four months and a gruelling Atlantic crossing, it almost feels surreal. Sorry for the late update - this has been done for some time, but I've been at sea for the past month...

It is not the deep, dreamless sleep they both need and wish for, but she is curled up against his side, hand on his chest, and he thinks he could die happily just like this. Seeing her sleeping face by the glow of the fire, hearing her soft breath, feeling her hand over his heart, the scent of her skin in his nose.

But then she would have lost another, would mourn another, and he will not let that come to pass. He wants to still be here and hold her when they are both old and grey.

He wakes with a jolt when she cries out, a frightened, panicked sound that rends at his heart. She has turned away from him in her sleep, knees pulled up and curled up tightly. Her hands are clenching and unclenching, and he thinks she might be crying.

"Marion."

He speaks low and gentle, trying to rouse her, but she only curls up tighter, making a low keening sound.

"Marion, you are dreaming," he tries again. He lays a hand on her upper arm, trying to ground her, but she lashes out, and he barely catches her elbow with the palm of his hand before it hits him in the throat. "Marion!"

She stills all at once, breathing fast and flat, and he sees the gleam of her open eyes in the low light of the fire.

"You are well," he tells her in a low voice. "It was a dream. You are safe."

Her harsh, shuddering breathing reminds him of nothing so much as of a frightened animal, and he doesn't know what to do, has no experience with this. Doesn't know if she wants to be held or to have space. He hovers an uncertain hand over her arm, touches her tentatively. When she does not pull away, he slowly, so slowly, curls himself around her, his chest lightly against her back.

"Can you tell me?" he asks after long minutes of silence. He is not sure he wishes to know, but it might do her good to tell him. She is silent, and he concentrates on the slow passes of his hand over her arm and shoulder, a gentle, soothing rhythm.

"He locked me up in the storage shed," she speaks finally, soft and emotionless. "He shoved me up against a pillar and I fought, but he – he was too strong. He... _sniffed_ me."

He can feel her revulsion, and even if he doesn't understand why that detail specifically should upset her, he accepts that it did, and only hums softly in acknowledgement.

Except maybe she needs him to speak? He desperately wants to make this better, but he has no idea how.

"I... breathe you in, sometimes," he confesses, wondering why he says it. "Should I not?"

"You... you..." she hesitates, distracted. "Why do you?"

"You smell good, of the herbs you use for your hair and..." he searches for words, feeling like this is important and he is getting it all wrong. "...of you," he finally says helplessly. "You smell of you, and I love you."

She turns around in his arms, her breathing easing.

"He sniffed me like I was a fresh loaf and he was starving," she says into his shoulder.

Right. He understands that, understands the difference.  

"Is that what you dreamt of?"

"I dreamt of not having a dagger," she says almost matter-of-factly. It strikes him that her true fear is helplessness, not having a hand in her own fate, and it explains so much about her. Why she hated having him thrust upon her as a fake husband, and why she chose to ride out to battle.

On instinct he leans back to reach over the edge of the bed, feeling for his boots. She looks back at him, expression confused, and he searches out his boot dagger by feel and pulls it out. She watches him with a guarded expression on her face when he brings it up and tucks it under her pillow. He remembers only then that she already has a dagger by her bed, and feels stupid.

"You're a good man, Robin Longstride" she whispers, pushing up to her elbows to kiss him. His breath catches at the feel of her hair draped over his throat, and he makes a soft sound of surprise and pleasure into her mouth. Her body is a soft press against him, and he is suddenly very aware of how thin the layers are that separate them.

"Marion, marry me," he whispers fervently, letting a hand slide to her jaw.

She smiles.

"We are already wed."

"That is a..." he hesitates, searching for a way not to offend her, "a ruse. I want this to be real."

He does not need a fanfare. If it is only them saying the vows to each other, with Friar Tuck to witness, he will be satisfied with that. But he needs the solidity of exchanging vows with her, of knowing right down to his bones that this is real, that what started as a ruse is now a reality chosen by the both of them.

She kisses him again, slow and sweet. Her arms tremble with fatigue, and he rolls them both onto their sides. His hand strokes her hair, the shell of her ear, and he loses himself in her, in the sweet slide of her lips, the warm touch of her tongue.

"I, Marion of Loxley," she breathes over his ear, and he shivers, "hereby wed thee, Robin Longstride." She brushes the softest of kisses over his lips.

He swallows and works his jaw for a moment before he can utter a sound.

"I, Robin Longstride," he says, and his voice sounds low and rumbling in his chest, "Wed thee, Marion of Loxley." He casts around for words that cover the vastness of his feelings, and after a few moments settles on. "I will be by your side, come what may, forever and ever."

Her smile is beautiful as she pushes closer to kiss him, arms going around him, her entire body pressed up against his. The layers of cloth between them hide nothing from his senses. He drags in a deep breath at the staggering intimacy of what they have just said, and kisses her back, slow and heady.

He does not have it in him to resist this, to refuse her. He thinks it is possible he will never refuse her anything she asks for, and this would alarm him if he didn't trust her as much as he does.

He lets his hands slide downward from her shoulder, and she makes a soft, approving sound.

They are neither of them blushing virgins, but they are tired, and injured, and there will be other moments for this. He lets the kiss trail off slowly into gentle presses of lips, until they are merely sharing breath, sleepy and comfortable.

He rolls them both to their sides and she tucks her head under his chin, nuzzles his neck.

"Wife," he starts, but he hasn't thought about the rest of what he would say, doesn't have the words to explain how very much he wishes to keep her from harm and never, ever hurt her himself. "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me," he finally finishes sleepily.

He can feel her smile against his throat.

"I love you, Robin."

 


End file.
